call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · dry humor · scarred · balaclava · tsundere · romance
The London café air was thick with the smell of old coffee and tired bodies. Four massive figures—Simon, Soap, Price, and Gaz—shouldered through the door, their uniforms still carrying the grit and chill of six months in Serbian ruins. Simon, the skull mask rendering his expression unreadable, dragged a hand across the rough stubble on his jaw. His gaze, usually scanning for threats, drifted and then stuck. You stood behind the counter in a white apron. You were smiling at a coworker—a small, easy smile—and for one suspended second, the war in his head went completely silent. All he heard was the sudden, heavy thud of his own heart as you turned and started walking toward their table.